Warning in a Bottle
I became an old man.
When you carried me to bed,
your arms got tired.
My arms–I held them
along the horizon so the sun
would not drop into the sea.
You are trying
to do such a thing for me–
but you became a great tree stretching your limbs
like a priest.
In another bottle
this might be a blessing.
Don’t you understand:
the throat that is open
was once stopped.
I am that flute.
literaryadmin
LITERARY GAZETTE 
Leave a comment